


Onomatopoeia

by Teigh



Series: Pedestrian Wolves [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-29
Updated: 2008-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders, glancing towards the window, what voice the moon sings in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onomatopoeia

**Author's Note:**

> First of five character studies for the Pedestrian Wolves 'Verse.

The strings have been unruly under his hands for the past hour. Originally a distraction, the guitar is instead acting as an amplifier, pulling his frustration out in minor keys and sour notes. But can you call something so familiar a distraction? Does something have to be unusual to draw the attention? Ray knows that he has to keep his hands busy- tick of the internal clock sounding like the click of claws on asphalt are demanding preoccupation. He’d spent the last two hours trying not to think, to tighten his thoughts. Perhaps he’d been approaching this all wrong. He slid a finger down a string, pulling a muted snarl from the guitar. A flurry of notes followed, sketching out a steady four-legged gait. He can hear the potential, a second guitar winding its quickness into the long chords, spill of sound a step away from chaos.

 _What he sees: Steady blue gaze, staring back over a bare shoulder. Bob slips close to the chain link fence. Two long steps into the angular block of bus-shadow. Then a wolf trots free, steel weave of the fence drawing checkered geometries on pale fur._

 _What he remembers: The taut throb of his own clenched fists, anxiety whitening his knuckles._

A half moon hangs indifferent above. For satellites, this is routine, as common and constant as morning coffee and sound checks.

Ray stops, brushing calluses along strings, swish of sound an echo – fur rustle along stainless steel. He wonders, glancing towards the window, what voice the moon sings in. He expects Gerard knows – though the answer might be buried and possibly masked. Ray builds the scene again, tried this time to embrace the familiar. Low thrum, the exhalation of sweet June night air. Static and distortion, the hum of bus life. The erratic chorus of raised celebratory voices. Woven low, containing and watching, is the tick tick low moan caught in a furred throat, blurred by strings.

He’s so engrossed in finally getting it right, in granting the paw prints their proper sonic outlines, Ray misses the pad of bare feet (the one sound he’d been straining to hear). He jumps when Bob opens the door.

“Anything?”

Bob shakes his head, bangs falling into his eyes. “It’s all clear.” He looks at the guitar. “You find anything?”

Ray looks at his hands so he doesn’t have to see the deep satisfaction sparking in Bob’s eyes. He plays.

Fence/chain/link/linger/nail click/ long road end/ earth/silence/watching

And stops.

“Yeah,” Ray says.

“Yeah,” Bob agrees and is gone, ghost silent.

~~~

That night, Ray dreams of the moon’s song. It’s not high, clear and cold, like he’d expected. Instead it resonates low, vibrating the marrow of his bones. In his dream, he can’t stay silent and lifts his own voice. In his dream, he’s not left behind.

He doesn’t notice, the next day, that it takes him twice as long to shave.


End file.
